Tales of Corus
by KrisEleven
Summary: A collection of unrelated Tortall one-shots. Tales of Corus and beyond! Come in, one and all, and read of kings and queens and common folk alike. These are the stories the Players forget. Chapter 6, Dignity for the Dead: Cleon defends the dead from Stormwings.
1. The Place Where They Hold

A/N This was written for Goldenlake's Advent Calendar event in 2012. Wordy wanted a Raoul&Gary story, so I wrote one set after Song of the Lioness, some time after Raoul stopped drinking.

Summary: He never gives into the demons plaguing him, but Gary wonders sometimes if that is what it will take for them to _talk_ about these silent nights, these vigils over Raoul's will.

* * *

They didn't talk on these nights, when the pressure built until Raoul thought he would collapse with it, or scream with it, or give in (and that is the worst, when he finds himself willing to grab that bottle and drink the pressure away).

They hardly even look at each other, to be true. Raoul will knock on Gary's office or bedroom door, and since it is the only time Raoul is hesitant enough to wait to be let in, Gary will know what his friend needs. Other times, when the bottle isn't taunting Raoul with everything he has given up, Raoul bursts in, already half through a sentence and taking up all the space as Gary tries to catch up (he is always trying to catch up to Raoul, he thinks suddenly, in the silence, always a step behind, too slow to see the damage being done, too far to see the darkness Raoul hid in tankard and glass. He wonders if he could have stopped all of this, if he had been willing to step close, but he doesn't let himself think the question to its closure).

Instead of talking, Gary works. Even if pulled from sleep, he sits at his desk and pulls papers close, trying to focus eyes bleary with fatigue on the words written there.

Raoul paces, usually, but he never talks about it.

He has never come to Gary light-headed and staggering, has never given into the demons plaguing him, but Gary wonders sometimes, in the silence between them, if that is what it will take for them to look at each other and _talk_ about these silent nights, these vigils over Raoul's will.

(Gary wonders if talking about the drained bottles and morning headaches and missed meetings would have kept it from getting this far, but he doesn't ask)

(Raoul wonders if Gary resents these nights, if he knows that the silence is filled with _I'm trying_ and _this is hard_ and _damn it all, I am so sorry_)

And one night, Gary meets Raoul at the door. Raoul doesn't walk in, just stands there in the threshold as if he doesn't belong there, and Gary opens his mouth to shatter the silence that has held them apart since that night when Raoul got on his horse drunk and nearly killed a family. Since Gary had realized that he hadn't been there to save his friend from himself, since Raoul had been forced to reveal this thing he sees as his greatest weakness.

"I'm glad you're here," Gary says.

Raoul looks down with a broken exhalation and Gary pulls him forward until they cling to each other.

"I'll always be here," Gary says, and it is enough to keep the silence on the outside of the place where they hold.


	2. Hope in You for Me

A/N Written for Goldenlake's MPP 'Wistful', and set just before the Daughter of the Lioness series. The title is from 'The Space Between', by Dave Matthews Band.

Summary: Kaddar feels the space between Kalasin and himself and doesn't know how to get to the other side.

* * *

They did not often take their meals alone. The royal wedding of the Emperor of Carthak to Kalasin (formerly) of Conté was too recent for the court and ambassadors to not want to watch them, even as they took their meals, or for the palace staff to not be professionally scandalized if the lavish feasts were abandoned for quieter, common fare taken only by husband and wife in a cool, private dining room.

Kaddar had smiled through a month of feasting, watching his new wife from the corner of his eye as the court stared, shameless in _their _curiosity. He had thought of all they were missing out on, had wished fervently, even as he nodded regally or smiled at the music or entertainment, of all the things he would say, the light touches he would be allowed, the woman he could – perhaps – _finally_ – get to know, if only they could have just one moment alone.

Sitting in the small dining room, alone except for a single servant waiting by the door, Kaddar fought the urge to clear his throat or ask, again, if Kalasin was enjoying this particularly warm autumn weather. His lip practically quivered as he fought against the need to break the silence between them. This was not what he had wanted.

He wasn't sure_ what_ he wanted. He regarded the woman sitting across – his _wife_ – and tried to understand the restlessness that had settled in his joints, setting them to ache and to aimless movement at unfortunate hours. There was a wall of propriety and cool air and distance – all the distance that stretched between Carthak and Corus, all the ocean and forests and differences between them – that separated Kaddar from Kalasin and the Emperor wished not that he could break it down, but perhaps that it would be lowered for him, or that he could slip around its edges and inside where he could feel the warmth again.

She must have sensed his gaze, which had lingered a touch too long, because Kalasin looked up and smiled, polite and distant but beautiful nonetheless. Immediately, her blue eyes dropped their gaze back to her plate and she continued fiddling with her fork as if she hadn't just caught Kaddar's breath in her hands, drawing it away and leaving him empty, dry, abandoned.

Her pale hand rested on the table between them, painted nails dark against the tablecloth and the rings her attendants had wrapped around her slim fingers glittered in the candlelight. Kaddar held his own hands – king's hands except for pens' calluses and garden's dirt beneath his nails – together tightly, refusing to allow them to reach treacherously across the space between them, to hold that hand that tapped a rhythm on the table-top.

Kaddar refused to allow his hand to breach the barrier the Empress had put between them, but he couldn't help but stare.

And he couldn't help but _want _to.


	3. Certain Knowing Circles

__A/N This was written for Goldenlake as well, this time for one of the Malorie's Peak Prompts: 'Choose a Side'. The italisized bits are from the episode A Good Man Goes to War, from _Doctor Who_.

Summary: Taybur Sibigat had always been known as a loyal man and an implacable enemy.

* * *

_Demons run_

_When a good man goes to war._

_Night will fall and drown the sun_

_When a good man goes to war_

* * *

The wave broke over his head and all Taybur could do was close his eyes and hold his breath, hoping against hope that he could stay afloat just a small while longer. It had been... he didn't know how long it had been, but the storm had yet to abate. He shifted his precious burden to the other arm, the muscles already screaming as he used the opposite to tread water. He wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. It would be easier – so much easier –

No. Never. He... he couldn't leave him out here _alone_. The rain fell so torrentially that even when the ocean wasn't crashing, stinging, choking, into his face, he could still barely catch breath. His legs didn't even hurt with the exertion, not anymore; they were barely more than dead weight and only because he hadn't yet sunk beneath the waves did he know that he was still capable of kicking them. Shifting the weight between arms barely gave him relief anymore. But he wouldn't let him go.

He had already failed. He would not. He could not. He wouldn't let _go_.

He supposed it wouldn't be bad to give in and sink into Wave-Walker's embrace, but someone had _done this_. It was the last thing he heard before the ship had broken apart and he and Dunevon were thrown into the water; the storm was not natural.

Someone had killed his king. Taybur had sworn to protect him. It was unpardonable. The fact that they, surely, had wanted him to perish as well was acknowledged and dismissed, unimportant; he knew that, in certain knowing circles he was considered an implacable enemy. It had mattered very little; very few things could so stir his animosity. But he had _sworn._

The weight of his sovereign had never felt more like a child as it did now, and Taybur did not let go.

He would find out who did this. And if it was Imajane and her Jimajen husband...

The gods would turn their faces from them. He, for one, was grateful for the surety of the belief he felt at the thought; though he was sure the gods would understand what he would have to do, he would not want them to see as he ripped them from their thrones and threw them to the wolves ever circling the gate.

Taybur choked on sea water and rain and tears and held the body of his king and kept himself afloat

* * *

_Demons run_

* * *

He took a deep breath, the air entering his lungs freely and without obstruction feeling like a betrayal. He set the thought aside. Taybur had no time for weakness now.

His reputation was that of a loyal man: a servant of the crown, one that could not be tempted away by coin or threat. It had been one of the reasons Topabaw had mistrusted him so thoroughly: loyalty was one thing the spymaster could _not_ understand.

Thinking of the spymaster made him think of the note he had just sent, or, rather, the recipient. Aly Homewood, the Balitang's... spy? Servant? Guard? He was still not sure, but somehow he knew he was right in looking to her as he turned his gaze from the Rittevon thrones. There was something stirring throughout the Copper Isles, something –he realized, looking back – that had been slowly waking for a long time. The beginning tremors had been small, easy to ignore but now the size of the beast was becoming known as its waking thrashes finally began in earnest. The country was a volcano hovering at the edge of eruption and some part of him mourned the destruction to come, because you couldn't control fire of the likes going to be unleashed. You could make firebreaks and you could run from its path, but the destruction was going to be so far-flung and so all-consuming that nothing would be left unscarred, not really.

He should be making a firebreak. Instead, he was throwing fuel in and waiting for the flames.

Because he _had_ been loyal. It had dominated his life, his every thought. He would have gladly made any sacrifice asked of him in order to serve his king.

But they had killed his king.

There were those in certain, knowing circles who considered him an implacable enemy.

He would make Imajane and Rubinyan regret making him theirs.

* * *

_But count the cost:_

* * *

The fire raged through the capital and across the Isles.

Taybur stood aside and allowed the enemy to walk, victorious, through the gates of the Grey Palace.

There were those in some circles who called him a traitor, though never when any loyal to the Queen could see their faces.

There were those who saw him as an opportunist. He received more offers from the spymasters of the Eastern nations in the month following the rebellion than he had in all his years rising to a position of power within the Rittevon court.

He accepted none of them, of course.

His reputation of being a loyal man was tarnished and broken to everyone but those who knew the truth.

Imajane and Rubinyon had made a terrible error. They should not have relied on the storm. They should have stuck a knife in his ribs before the ship was sunk.

Taybur knew Aly hoped that he would find something in this new Queen, this wise child, to be loyal to. Anyone with eyes to see (those in certain, knowing circles) understood his loyalty had never belonged to the crown or throne. And Aly, clever Aly, could see right to the depths of him.

He wasn't sure, yet, but he thought he may serve the queen who had deposed the king-killers as long as she would have him. Dunevon had been such an awful lot to sacrifice for this bright hope of a future.

* * *

_The battle's won but the child is lost_


	4. Ran to the Devil

A/N This one was for the Malorie's Peak Prompt 'Crossroads', and is set during _Lioness Rampant_. The lyrics are from the song 'Sinnerman'.

Summary: Thom's downfall was that he was always willing to listen to the voices that told him what he wanted to hear.

* * *

_Oh sinnerman where you going to run to?_

He tossed another tome down on the growing pile, frustrated enough that he didn't care if he damaged to precious book on loan to him from the University's library. _None_ of them held the spells he was searching for, not one even came _close._ He wasn't sure why he had thought there would be something for him in Corus that he couldn't find in a center of magical learning like the City of the Gods... Perhaps he should go to Carthak, spend time in the university there –

(no)

(you belong in the palace)

but, no. He wanted to stay in Corus. There were so many amusements here; and his sister, of course... whenever she returned from her travels south. Thom shook his head, the beginnings of a sharp headache growing behind his eyes again. He had been getting them a lot, recently. And some of his hours and thoughts seemed to go... sideways. Foggy. It was worrying. He'd go to Alanna, if she was in Corus, but perhaps... perhaps he _should_ go to a healer –

(there is nothing wrong with you)

(don't be weak)

(there is still _so much_ to do)

Yes, yes of course, there is still much for him to do. So many projects hovering at the tips of his fingers, almost in reach for him to grasp. Then those fools at the City would see. Then his name would _mean_ something. They wouldn't doubt his intelligence, his power then.

Let them see an 'average student' then.

But which project should he undertake? It had to be something so great, not one of his sceptics and disbelievers would _dare_ doubt him.

A smooth hand ran up his back. He turned and smiled at Delia, covered only in the thin blanket he had left her covered with.

"Are you going to come back to bed?" she said, her hand gliding over his shoulder and onto his chest. "I woke up alone, cold... you _could_ fix that, Thom."

He smiled distantly, without looking at her. Distractions. He didn't want distractions, now. He wanted his next project.

"I told you I saved some of Duke Roger's scrolls and things, didn't I?" Delia responded, and Thom nearly jumped. He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.

"Yes but... he was a traitor," he argued, weakly. "I don't want to follow in any man's footsteps, Delia," he said, his true reasoning plain. He did not share his sister's love for King _or_ country.

"But there are magics even Roger never tried," she whispered, her breath and her lips against his ear. Distractions. "You could be the greatest mage of your age."

(yes)

"Where are they?"

Delia's fingertips dug into his shoulders painfully, just for a moment, as if in victory.

_So, I ran to the devil_

He cleared his throat, cleared it again, trying to get rid of some of the moisture gathering in his lungs. He felt so weak, now. Too weak to draw a full breath, even, and that left him gasping at the slightest endeavors. It was worrying. When had he gotten so weak?

(it's nothing)

"Don't _worry_, so, Thom." Roger's voice was smooth in the darkness, whispering up the back of Thom's neck like a caress, or a warning of danger. Thom looked back over his shoulder but even seeking the other man out of the shadows, Thom couldn't find him. Thom had been sitting looking in the light too long, and, besides... Roger seemed at home in the darkness, and could hide there most effectively.

"How did you know I was worrying?" Thom asked, smiling as Roger's laughed in response.

"As if I don't know that body well enough to see tension," he replied, suddenly much closer – sudden enough that Thom startled at the sound of Roger's voice beside his ear, and at the cold hands that pressed down his neck and back.

"You should leave that work for now, you're exhausted.

(leave that now)

"Come to bed; you have plenty of time for your next great project."

(your greatest project is already complete, isn't it?)

Thom stood without argument, and Roger blew out the lamp. Hands guided him through his room, the darkness and the buzzing in his head making it a stranger. He wanted to do more work. He wanted...

(no)

He was laid back on the bed. Roger's hands trailed along his ribs, and up under his shirt, and his protestations were more easily forgotten than held onto.

_There was always time tomorrow_, he thought, his breath hitching as Roger's lips brushed his neck.

(of course. tomorrow will come)

(for some)

_He was waiting._

It was too late.

Thom could feel the last of his strength leaving him, knew that he had brought this on himself. He had thought he was _winning _something, finding the means to bring Duke Roger back from the dead, but he had walked right into the man's trap.

So used to being the smartest in the room, he hadn't even _considered_... but how do you fight against a mastermind from beyond the grave? How do you fight a voice whispering in your head?

_I should have_, Thom thought, _but he whispered what I wanted to hear. That was always the danger of him._

Roger had long stopped that. Thom had done everything he was meant to, in Roger's plan, his game. He was a piece used up, and now he was being discarded. Thom was too weak to cough, could feel his fever burning truly out of control, now. It was the very end of him, he knew this.

_They'll remember me, won't they?_

He was too weak to laugh or cry, so he didn't have to find out which one he would have chosen as he waited for his sister to find him.


	5. Mouse Pups

A/N Written for the TPE BINGO Autumn prompt 'rustling', this takes place after the epilogue of _Trickster's Queen_, but before the short story _The Dragon's Tale_. I liked the idea of the little ones with wild magic and how animals would react to them, and Nimble the mouse mama came about.

Summary: Sarra doesn't want to go to the Divine Realms to visit her grandparents, not without her ma. Nimble is a mouse without pups in her nest, and a ma is a ma.

* * *

Nibble sniffed the air carefully before she darted from her hiding place in the garden. Fallen leaves, brown and crisp rustled as she moved through the courtyard. Following the cracks of the stone floor, she hurried through the open space, and climbed the ivy of the wall on the far side, up onto the windowsill. She flattened herself against the sill, squeezing her round ears down against her head as she wiggled through the crack the window was left open. On the other side, she breathed easier. Cats and maids weren't really a problem in the castle. Daine's presence meant a truce between predators and prey, but that didn't mean Nimble wanted to spend any more time than she had to in an open space. It seemed to be asking for trouble, she thought as she licked her paws and ran them over her whiskers.

A small sound from behind a closed door caught Nimble's attention. Jumping down onto the desk below the window, Nimble abandoned her cleaning routine and ran down the table leg onto the floor. Hurrying across Daine and her mate's shared space, Nimble squeezed under a closed door, following the tell-tale sniffles and hitched breaths. Without pausing, she scurried to the bedpost and used her sharp claws to climb up so she was on level with the mattress. A short leap, and she was in the lap of the crying child.

_Now, now,_ she said, as Sarra held out her hands and let Nimble hop aboard. She didn't even wince when the child held her to her face, even as tears soaked into her fur. _What's all this_?

_I don't wanna go_, Sarra replied, sniffing messily. Nimble scratched small claws against the girl's nose, mimicking her cleaning routine.

_Go where, sweet?_ Nimble asked.

The girl took a deep, hitching breath and wiped her eyes with her free hand, smearing her tears. Nimble waited patiently. It was easy to forget, at first, how slowly humans grew. She had borne three litters in the time since she had taken to spending time with Sarra, and all of her pups were grown and out in their own dens in the castle, but Sarra was human and still a baby. Nimble washed her paws and rubbed her face again. _Ma says they are going to visit Kaddar in Ca-Ca-Carthick and Rikash and I get to go to see Grandma and Granda but they are going far away and I want to go with Ma and Da. I don't wanna go with just Rikash. I want my ma!_

The girl was crying again, dripping onto Nimble's face. Nimble had already heard about this trip; Daine had told all the People in the castle about it and Nimble knew she planned to be gone a long time.

Sarra was apparently not taking to the idea.

_You'll have your brother, and your grandma and pa. _

_Rikash is only tiny. And I don't know them,_ Sarra said, her voice sounding like a wisp of a whisper in Nimble's mind. _I don't want to go all by myself._

Nimble understood. Just because she _knew_ that the courtyard wouldn't produce cats and owls to hunt her, didn't mean her heart didn't flutter with fear when she crossed it. And it was worse for the little ones; when they were new and pink, her pups were afraid of everything when she wasn't there to keep them safe and warm. They were all grown, now, and she had no new little ones in her nest. If Sarra was afraid of going somewhere without her ma, Nimble wouldn't leave her to do it alone.

_I'll come with you, too_, she promised the girl. _Everything will be just fine, you'll see._

Sarra hugged her, tight enough that Nimble wiggled free and dropped to the bed in protest. _Come now,_ she ordered. _Sleep. I'll talk to your ma when the sun comes up._ Sarra obeyed, curling up on her side with her hand near her mouth, her soft curls tangling all over her pillow. Nimble curled up amongst the tendrils, making sure she didn't create any knots as Sarra's eyes blinked and then drifted shut.


	6. Dignity for the Dead

******A/N **Set during the Scanran War, and written for Goldenlake's MPPrompt 'Cacophony'.

**Summary**: Cleon defends the dead from Stormwings.

* * *

The sun was setting, and command on both sides had ordered the day's fighting forces to retreat. The Tortallans had retreated into the fort they guarded, the Scanrans across the river to their camps on the northern side. The battleground was not silent, though the deafening cacophony of battle had dulled to the shouts of fewer men, the cries of the wounded, the sound the cart made as it rolled over enemy bodies and abandoned weapons.

Cleon could have been inside, resting after hours of brutal battle. His rank gave him that right. Instead, he was trudging through bloody mud. Healers had already searched through this section of ground; he and the men with him were loading the Tortallan men into carts so they could have their rites and their bodies sent to the pyres. He was stupid with fatigue, which is why he didn't notice the metallic clanging, the shouts and calls that were coming from _above_ him, not until one of his men shouted for his attention.

"Bows!" Cleon ordered, his voice rough as he readied his own weapon. Nearby, he heard a shout and was familiar enough with the enemy's language to know the Scanran soldiers collecting their dead nearby were drawing their bows as well, preparing to meet the Immortals as they flew overhead. The Stormwings drew close, and the stench hit Cleon as strongly as their shouted taunts, incomprehensible over each other and the sounds their metal wings made as they beat the air.

A female dipped down within range. Cleon held a hand to stop his men from firing, knowing that they couldn't afford to waste their arrows, or their energy on this fight. She was pretty - what was human of her - with high, fine cheekbones, full lips, and startling blue eyes. She grinned at him, and if he could ignore the blood and mud and filth caked on her skin, he would have thought her beautiful.

"Come now, little lordling!" she called down to him. "Let us do _our_ work now."

"You'll not defile these people while I stand," Cleon replied, keeping his voice strong, though it wanted to shake with anger. How dare she call what these Immortals did 'work', when everyone here had seen the atrocities they committed?

"Defile? Us? They are already dead, if you hadn't noticed, and not at our hands. At least they can have some purpose, now, instead of being piled into your cart like so much firewood. You'll have more to kill and cart away tomorrow! Let us have our fun tonight."

"Fun?" he choked out. "These are men, who died nobly, and you think I will let you take their dignity - "

"Do you feel better, cloaking yourself in your pretty lies?" she interrupted. The teasing lilt of her tone was gone, now. In its place, Cleon heard the coldness of steel, and blood and death. "Does it make your arms ache more fiercely, carting their dignity along with the blood and guts and bone? Will it make killing them all again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that seem like less of a waste?" She laughed and grinned when his reply was to pull taut the string on his bow, the chilling seriousness vanishing as quickly as it had overtaken her. "As you wish!" she cackled. "There is plenty of battleground; you can't keep us from all the entertainment you've been so gracious as to provide." She was out of his range before he could truly aim his weapon, and her group circled over him, yelling vulgar and foul things before flying to the east.

"Run back and inform Lord Raimond that we need more men out here, to drive them away," Cleon told one of the soldiers. He watched the man run off, and saw that the Scanrans, too, spoke to a Stormwing. Cleon watched as they gave the Immortal the same answer, watched as the group flew out of bow range and north, towards the river where the fighting had been thickest. Cleon met the gaze of the Scanran soldier and nodded, his gesture returned, before returning to work.

He lifted the legs of a young soldier who had suffered a blade stroke to the collarbone and moved the body into the cart. Cleon wondered if that Scanran soldier had killed any of the men whose broken bodies he had already loaded. Cleon grabbed the arms of a man disemboweled and lifted the body to the cart. He wondered if he himself would kill any of those Scanrans who had so readily defended the dignity of their dead, in the days to come. Cleon helped to lift the headless corpse of one of their own and prayed that the war would end.


End file.
